


Double Fantasy

by thisbirdhadflown



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: A brief and underdone exploration of John and Yoko and Marriage and Bisexuality, Angst, Drabble, F/M, M/M, and pining Paul McCartney
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:41:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23574052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbirdhadflown/pseuds/thisbirdhadflown
Summary: "Her husband holds his tattered heart in his hands, Paul’s name carved in with hurt and anger and everything that love can sour and sweeten into."After the ballad of John and Yoko.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney - One Sided, John Lennon/Yoko Ono
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	Double Fantasy

**1971**

He relents under the strain he may or may not be imagining, sitting cross legged in front of her on the carpet with the frenzied rush of his blood ringing in his ears and the sluggishness of his limbs reminding him he is blissfully and painfully intoxicated. 

“He was hard and I was hard, so we sorted ourselves out,” John blinks slowly, absorbing her visage, the quiet contemplation and the unjudging eyes that stay locked on him.

“Sorted?” Yoko cants her head, a curtain of black hair over her shoulder shifting to follow the edge of her jaw.

“We touched each other,” he chuckles, bewildered by the intimacy of saying it like that. It hadn’t been like that when he told Pete, who took the information without the heavy weight of aftermath. 

“How did it feel?” she implores, the fizzle of her cigarette hissing in harsh licks in his ears, she raises the smoke to her mouth. 

“Profound,” he muses, “Good. Really fucking good, actually. Got to hand it to ‘im, pardon the pun, he always knew how to please me.”

Somewhere floating in his peripheral vision is the obnoxious slip of warm tones that make up the RAM album cover, sat on the floor by the record player. No music is playing now, just that sizzling firefly dot at the end of her cigarette, ash raining when she moves her lips. 

“And only once?” she passes him the smoke, his throat itching for that familiar sensation. 

“More or less,” he sucks in a deep inhale, “You can fuck a guy with words, with your mind.”

Seeping in regret and remorse, he turns his eyes down to his bare feet, where the cuffs of his jeans are turned up and have been rubbing his ankles raw for a week now. He wonders if Brian ever told anyone about them. No one has crawled out from the rotting woodwork yet. Paranoia clogs his thoughts. 

“The intensity was there,” she shifts her posture, lighting up another cigarette for herself, “Unrealised potential.”

“We would have ruined each other,” he grunts, “Two insecure fags.”

“That’s why it’s important to find someone right for you,” Yoko muses, “We just happen to be female and male.”

John swipes spilled ash off of his knee, the clattering of assistants in the other room drumming up the walls and making him self conscious, “It doesn’t mean anything, you can love one as much as the other. We, being humans, are too inhibited, too square and scared and…”

He notes the firey orange glowing at the tip of his cigarette is the same as the colour of _that_ album, the one that spins relentlessly with or without a record player. He thinks of Paul, he thinks of unrealised potential, and no amount of smoke can hide the pain of the continuous crumbling of his heart.

**1975**

“Tony gave me this book,” John tells her, it's a harsh winter night in New York and the Dakota has a soft pulse of life now that they are together again, “Portrait of a Marriage, you’ve heard of it?”

They are in bed, lying under the sheets in their day clothes with the lights on, and she feels a strange sense of relief and dread prickle over her skin at once. She imagines he feels it too. 

“Tony?”

“Tony King,” John rolls onto his side, “It’s about Vita Sackville-West and Harold Nicholson, married poets. He said it would remind me of us, you and me.”

“Why?” She has a curious feeling filtering through, recalling all the legends about the famous couple and begins to pair up details, the tangled web of connections becoming clear when John speaks.

“Well, they were artists, see,” his eyes trail over her face and he looks so young, “And they loved each other… But they could never be faithful, they weren’t satisfied by each other, but they stayed together.”

Her mind wilts, though she doesn’t show it. Her thoughts skip past Tony when she hears the hesitant pause, the self conscious mumbling of his tone, the drifting of his thoughts centering not on them as they are but on someone else entirely, “He must think he’s perceptive.”

Her husband holds his tattered heart in his hands, Paul’s name carved in with hurt and anger and everything that love can sour and sweeten into. He will thread his fingers through her black hair and make a half-coherent comment about the old days and she has to swallow down the ache. Loving him, really loving him - every level and layer - means that she hides parts of herself. She tucks the hurt of losing her daughter aside in silence as John equates the songs of Lennon/McCartney to children. She conceals the anecdotes of happier times with her ex husband because John’s anger would flare at the mention of an ex she loved deeply, once upon a time. His mind will travel down two paths, Paul and Yoko. Old and new. He does not mix them up, he knows the differences there - he could recite them all happily, or angrily, it depends on the day. It stings in a way he might not ever understand. That’s why loving John is difficult and draining, he stews in heartbreak. And it’s not enough that they built a life together, that they are in bed eye to eye and still excited by their reunion, his mind has to trail back to Paul. 

She wants his solemn promise, his mind in the present and not ruminating on the past. He would ask the same from her and she would give it all, but he can’t ever do the same. It’s more than his male pride, it’s love and loss and how John will never let go of it, lest he lose a part of himself. 

**1976**

Sean is love and light and hope, he is a miracle. He is creation. John marvels at him as he babbles, tiny hands holding a toy up to his mouth while he wobbles on his feet. John draws a little cartoon baby in his notebook with dark hair and bright eyes. Fatherhood is no less than a privilege and he has decided he won’t be selfish about it from now on. 

Julian doesn’t hate him, he learned that much when May had convinced him to mend the broken pieces of his past and invite his ex wife and son to Disneyland. Julian is wary of him, he treads ground carefully and politely. He has the subdued exterior of any typical teenager (of himself, back in the day) with something burning in the awkward silences that their conversations settle into. They are afraid of each other, slowly warming to a kind of friendship that John wishes he could dive right into without the pain of process. Sean toddles over to him, passing him the wooden toy car.

“Thank you,” he smiles softly. He recounts times Julian had sat in the corner and coloured in pages in his sketchbook while John had his brain melting into the television set, drugged up and out of his mind. His son is not the playful toddler anymore, desperate for attention and love. He’s a young man, bright and aloof and missing pieces John should have given him when he had ample chance to do so. May had told him there were still chances, there was still time and reason to try. The problem was that he does try, but he never seems to do it the right way. 

Sean looks up at him with a toothless smile. The television is on and Yoko is attending to business in the other room. Wings are touring the US and Paul has stopped calling. He hasn’t written a song in what feels like years and somehow he is numb to everything but the delight his son expresses when he smiles back. 

“Should I call Julian?” he asks Yoko later, they are having dinner and Sean is being tucked in by their Nanny. 

“When was the last time you spoke to him?” she chews on the bread he had made (spent too long in the oven this time), flipping a magazine page over. 

“Can’t remember,” he pokes at the scattered crumbs on his plate, mapping out ways to speak on the topic without bringing up May, “I should. I think it’s important, don’t you?”

Yoko nods, her focus is somewhere else and he doesn’t have the energy to fight for it. He goes to sneak into Sean’s bedroom to read him a story, but he’s already asleep. The Nanny watches him, concerned that he will disturb Sean’s sleep. 

He goes to bed and wonders if the McCartney household is ever quiet like the Dakota gets, even if New York is bustling outside their window. If there is ever that still empty air, no babies crying or children giggling or nursery rhymes being sung or guitars being strummed. If there is ever a moment for Paul to wonder about him.

**-**

She considers that the concept of space is vital to their marriage. In the beginning they were growing into each other, tangling themselves with the other and never prying apart for a moment. They delved into each other and found comfort and love there. They could never drift, holding too tight and too close to ever risk it. They work together, they collaborate in music and art and business. Everything that exists in their lives is for them to share, and that was exciting and romantic and what anyone could hope for. It was. But reality and human nature bleeds into practised idealism. They hadn’t drifted, they simply noticed the spaces between them. They felt the gaps that couldn’t be filled. They are as together as they had been before John’s ‘Lost Weekend’. They are as separate as any ordinary married couple approaching a ten year anniversary. They will count the nearly two years John was with May as their own, because they never were apart, really. Phone calls and unending nights fretting over John’s health. Her tarot reader gave her no sense of peace, there is no map for John Lennon. There is only hope and art and what exists in those horrendous spaces. 

John periodically mentions his friend, Elton John, with the chirpy happiness that Yoko enjoys seeing. When she finds out that Elton told Rolling Stone he is bisexual, she is mutely surprised but not threatened. If John was in love with Elton he wouldn’t be so cheerful about the relationship they have, he would be angry about what was missing. 

“He has guys following him everywhere, but he’s in love with his manager,” John informs her with the delight of a regular gossip. He’s always enjoyed knowing about things like that. 

“Is his manager in love with him?” she says, only realising on the last beat of her words how they might affect John.

“Reid doesn’t love anyone,” John shrugs, gaunt face lowering to inspect the newspaper on the table, “He might have, once.”

**1978**

The patrons of the gay bars he frequents these days don’t recognise him. His accent has softened closer to something somewhat American and he’s much thinner than he was when his picture was constantly popping up in papers. Mostly, he’s left alone to stand in the corner with a familiar face or two and chat about everyone else but themselves. A Dusty Springfield number starts to play and people start whistling and cheering, pawing at each other as they sway. Shirtless men saunter past, leather bands wrapped around their wrists and vibrant gleaming eyes as they seek out another drink, a potential partner. John’s eyes are obscured by the darker lenses of his glasses, by his own invisibility to the world. He watches the shaved ice in his glass shiver along with the stamping pulse of the establishment. An old favourite, scotch and coke, he gulps it down and reminisces about the warmth of Dusty’s eyes, the sweetness of her chaste kisses on their cheeks and learning years later that she was definitely not flirting with any of them. 

“She lives with a woman,” Paul had informed him shortly, stalking through the Indica Bookshop, John trailing along like the subpar sidekick he always fears he is. And he found himself in a kind of awe of the woman he barely knew, envious of her. For all he knew, she was living in bliss. In truth. In completeness. Watching Paul comb through editions of obscure titles with his focused eyes and long pale fingers tapping against the shelves reminded him of being a lad, standing in Paul’s living room with old Jim giving him a dark look from over his paper.

“Good old Dusty,” says James, a pleasant young man with an unpretentious disposition. He is an aspiring artist, working with his friends out of a garage printing copies of their own queer zines. He has a crooked grin and rose perpetually colouring his cheeks. John can dig as long as he wants, he never finds the streak of pathetic insecurity he always expects to find in these men. 

“You ever been to Berlin, John?” James asks, adjusting the navy handkerchief spilling from his back pocket

“Why?” he takes a sip, the alcohol a warm splash of relief. 

“Ya seem like a well travelled guy,” James shrugs, sleeveless shirt shifting its fit around his torso as he twists over to plant his empty glass on the bar, “And Berlin in your day would have been quite the sight."

“In my day?” John scoffs, “Not ancient, you know.”

“I know, I know,” James splutters a laugh, “But you must have seen a lot of change over the years, hey?”

John licks over his lip, mind a fuzzy slate of half-remembered laws passed and attitudes evolved, it brings him a sort of comfort to know he’s travelled along with time, “Saw some wild stuff in Hamburg back in Ye Ole 1960. I was too proud to get really into it, though.”

“Proud?” James clicks his tongue, “Or too ashamed?”

“Both,” John shakes his head, “Can be the same thing with me.”

“What did you get up to, then?” James inquires, sitting up on a barstool, gold hair flopping over his eyes. 

John recalls lilac lights and velvet curtains, drag queens dancing on table tops and a particularly brave one bestowing a wine coloured lipstick stain on a napkin that slid into his pocket with a flashy smirk. He didn’t know what to do, already burning up within himself. He recalls an encounter at Monica’s bar, Horst Fascher swiping the curtain aside to see what he was up to and barely batting an eye at the sight of John tangled up with a male figure in women’s clothes. 

“I was only starting to work out what I was,” John replies, lip pressed to the glass rim, “I barely remember most of it, really, I was drinking a lot. Grew an affinity for drag queens, though, easy to talk to.”

“Ah,” James nods, “They’re kinda like our shrinks. There was a regular here, Sophia, and she looked after all the kids that came ‘round after their folks kicked them to the curb. Funny that, the blood of the covenant really is thicker than the water of the womb.”

John chuckles, chest warming with the alcohol in his system, “Doesn’t stop the hurt of missing out, though.”

“Of course not,” James shrugs, “You’re an artist, aren’t ya? You know all about emotional anguish, how necessary it is.”

John huffs, “Could do without.”

“We all have our crosses to carry.”

**1980**

When Paul McCartney is released from prison in Japan, the Dakota can exhale. John wears the strain of carrying Paul’s ghost on his shoulders with all the bitterness, sorrow and vexation of a scorned lover. Ten years, the milestone is imminent and yet she can still hear the twang of guitars and George muttering something lowly to Ringo on the other side of the studio. For all the running they do, they never seem to manage to create enough space between the past and the present. 

She and Sam have long phone calls and John sits in front of the television with his drawings piled around him and doesn’t comment afterwards. He’ll lock himself in another room and talk into his recorder or play with Sean until he’s tired. The truth is, they are comfortable like this. With space bleeding out between them at a pace they have grown to accept. Still, she’s curious. Curious and anxious about her husband, how his mind can drift and bend out of shape and all that will be left is his shell. 

“I always felt free in Scotland,” she hears him say from the other room, “It’s probably the same feeling I get in Japan, actually. It’s the feeling of being in a foreign country.” 

She wonders if John could ever truly settle somewhere, or if he’ll always be chasing something else.

-

“I could have done it, you know,” he says quietly, bitterness only nipping at the edges of his voice. Yoko doesn’t flinch, and maybe he’s relieved by that. He hates their fights, raw throats and tension gripping their souls until they are trembling with rage. 

“Then why didn’t you?” she replies, an edge to her voice she is trying to hide behind a cigarette. She’s by the window, shadows underneath her eyes and restlessness rattling underneath her exterior. His body is conforming to the couch and all the uncomfortable dips and sags in the pristine fabric, his slouching will grant him a sore neck soon. The television is buzzing, volume low. The white of the apartment has soured to grey over the years, soon enough they will both be rotting in a dark husk (as if they aren’t already). 

“Never found anyone attractive enough, did I?” he tongues at the dull point of a tooth, eyes directed at the static of a screen he spends more time absorbed with than he would care to admit. 

“And that’s all there is to it?” she says, her voice is dripping with intonations that John can’t decipher.

“The glass is already shattered, you’re only hurting yourself by stamping on it,” he mutters, and visualises the mosaic he has so pathetically arranged and kept for himself. 


End file.
